


Entanglement

by FenHarelMaGhilana (WhitethornWolf)



Series: Fortune Favour Me [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhitethornWolf/pseuds/FenHarelMaGhilana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zevran makes his intentions known, and Alistair and Eilin...interact. No Zevrans were harmed in the writing of this drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entanglement

Eilin disliked the midnight silence on second watch.

Growing up in a keep meant it was never simply quiet even at night with the patrols, and her insomnia meant she often wandered the battlements at odd hours. There was always the glow of torches and the murmured greetings of the guards, but here there were only shadows. It would have been pitch black if not for the campfire and the full moon, and it would have been silent too if not for Zevran.

She didn’t like the silence, but that didn’t mean she wanted it filled with his chatter.

“A coin for your thoughts, Warden.”

The assassin sat across from her, almost too close to the fire than was comfortable. The heat flushed his cheeks red and the flames made his skin glow bronze and gold. The effect was enough to catch her attention; she was well aware how handsome he was. His eyes had that lovely almond shape most elves seemed to have, and there were flecks of green amongst the amber colour. His profile was sharp and strong though — much different from the soft, delicate features of the elves she’d known in Highever.

“Cold?” she asked.

“Quite.” Zevran shivered and tucked his cloak between his knees, so its folds covered his chest, and held his hands out to the fire. “How you Fereldans stand it is truly a mystery.”

“This is nothing.” Eilin stretched one leg out, flexing her calf to ease the cramped muscle, and wrapped herself tighter in her own cloak. “Wait until the snows come.”

“Ai, I would rather not. Your Fereldan summers are quite enough, thank you.”

“Careful,” Eilin said as he inched closer to the flames. “I don’t fancy having to pull you out of the campfire.”

“Your concern touches me, truly,” Zevran said dryly, and she laughed. “I do not enjoy the thought of being …charred, but if it is hotter than this weather…”

"Suit yourself." Shrugging, Eilin wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head on them, ignoring the curls that fell into her eyes. "I take it you fancy your Antivan summers over ours.”

“Just one of the many things I fancy, my dear.”

“Dare I ask?” she began to reply, then the crunch of boots on foliage made her reach for her sword. But it was only Alistair, hair rumpled and eyes half closed.

“Uh,” he muttered, scratching his head.

“Uh,” Eilin said cheerfully. “Did we wake you?”

“No…” He gave her a confused look, still blinking sleepily in the firelight.

She frowned. “Are you alright?”

 

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, paused, then cast another glance at her. Then before she could ask, he turned and disappeared into the trees.

Five minutes passed, then ten. Eilin picked absently at the fraying stitches on her cloak and cast occasional glances towards the darkened forest.

She wasn’t worried about him — not  _exactly_. Alistair could hold his own in a fight, she’d seen enough battles to know that, and the trees around camp had been checked and double checked anyway. That look he’d given her concerned her more. She couldn’t sit still, stretching and bending her legs, playing with the pommel of her sword. Zevran didn’t speak again, but she felt his eyes watching her and wondered if she looked as big of a fool as she felt.

After twenty minutes her nerves had reached the end of their tether, so she stood and slung her scabbard over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back,” she told Zevran, and stepped over the sleeping body of her dog. “Shout if you need me.”

 

                                                 ~oOo~

 

Alistair hadn’t gone far, and for that she was grateful. The trees were looming black shapes and the ground uneven, and she only had filtered moonlight to guide her.

He leaned against one of the trees half in shadow only a few feet from the camp, shredding a piece of bark between his fingers, and didn’t react when she approached. Maybe he recognized her footsteps, or maybe he didn’t care who it was.

“Come to check up on me?” he said when she’d gotten close enough.

 

“Of course,” Eilin said. “You worried me.”

 

He snorted. “ _I_  worry  _you?_ ”

 

Eilin said nothing, only raised her eyebrows questioningly.

After a moment Alistair sighed and tossed the bark aside, folding his arms.

“I had a dream about you,” he said. “It was…an odd sort of dream. It felt very real. I’m still trying to think it through.”

 

“Was it a good dream, at least?” Eilin asked lightly.

 

He didn’t smile. “I was at Ostagar, on the battlefield with the men. So many corpses, all that snow and blood…and you were there too. But you were dead, like Duncan, and I was on my own.”

 

“It was a dream,” Eilin said, her tone light to disguise the shiver that ran through her. “A terrible dream, but I’m alright regardless. Hale and healthy. Tired and sick of Zevran’s chatter, but alive.”

 

“I’m not worried about the dream,” Alistair said impatiently. He stepped closer; so close she could see the shape of his nose and chin in the moonlight. “It was only a dream, I know that. I just can’t get the image out of my head. And with our life, I’m afraid it’ll become a reality one day.”

 

Eilin curled her fingers around his hand and tugged him a little closer. “We could all die, you know that.”

 

“I know.”

Had he moved closer still? Her stomach fluttered nervously, and she resisted casting a glance over her shoulder. Still alone, thank the Maker.

 

“But…” she said, and squeezed his hand. “You don’t want to be alone. I understand that.”

 

He stepped back, much to her disappointment, and let go of her hand.

“ _Maker’s breath_ ,” he said in an undertone, and fisted both hands in his hair.

 

“What’s wrong now?” Eilin said a little sharply.

 

“Nothing,” Alistair sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say this. You’ve been so… _good_ through this whole thing. The Blight, and everything,” he added when she looked confused, gesturing vaguely. “I don’t know how I could thank you.”

"You don’t need to thank me." She resisted casting another glance back through the trees. "Though if you really insist, I suppose I could think of a few ways."

Instead of laughing like usual, he blushed so hard she could see it even in the poor light. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

Eilin grasped him by the shoulders and pushed him gently back against the tree. They were so close her skin was buzzing, her nerves on edge from the nearness of him, but she held her ground.

“You are important to me,” she told him. “I’m here because I want to be, and I’m not going anywhere. You and me, we’re doing this together, I promise.”

Mere inches lay between them. The moonlight was strong enough now to illuminate most of Alistair’s face. He looked…uncertain? Confused? It was hard to tell. His eyes seemed to be darting all over her face; as she watched he licked his lips nervously. She mirrored the action without thinking.

Alistair murmured something; Eilin had only a split second to wonder before he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was only for a moment — seconds seemed like an eternity right then — but he pulled away as suddenly as he’d leaned close and said, “Was that too soon?”

Words seemed too jumbled for her tongue. “Um—I don’t —I don’t know.”

“You’re blushing,” Alistair whispered, and the slightest of smiles tugged at his lips. “Even your freckles are blushing.”

"Am I?" she wondered, though she’d already begun to feel the heat building in her cheeks. "Good. Do it again."

The next kiss was tentative, soft and so sweet it made her heart hammer wildly in her chest. Slow enough to give her time to back away — and that was assuming she  _wanted_  to — but Eilin knew as soon as he leaned in that an entire horde of darkspawn could have appeared at that moment and she wouldn’t have even noticed.

It wasn’t possible to get much closer and yet she tried anyway, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him and somehow trying in all its futility to not seem too eager. But it was Alistair, and she could smell soap and grass and woodsmoke and _him,_ and who cared about things like the chill and what Zevran must be thinking?

They were breathless by the time they broke the kiss, and his hands had moved from her shoulders to her face, brushing her cheeks and temples.

 

“You’re trembling,” he whispered.

 

“I know.”  _Don’t I know it._

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

“No.” His thumb caught on her bottom lip. Her mouth was swollen, her lips felt bruised, and she was suddenly, deliriously happy.

"Good," Alistair murmured against her mouth. "I don’t want to either."


End file.
